


Deception and Truth

by xensilverquill



Series: From Darkness We Rise [7]
Category: The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Team Villain, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2681864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xensilverquill/pseuds/xensilverquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wizzro watched - and hungered. For he had just set his sights on his newest conquest: Zant, the former usurper king of the Twilight himself."</p>
<p>Or "In Which Zant Is Tricked and Wizzro Is a Trashbag"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deception and Truth

Sunset washed the desert in its crimson light. It cast the towering sand dunes in sharp relief. Bright light turned one side a blinding white while the other lay in the deepest murk. The sun itself was a great wounded eye in the west, spilling its blood-colored rays across the land and the fortress at its heart.

From where it hid in the shadows, a single eye as red as the bleeding sun stared intently. It scanned the sandstone parapets and outer walls of the citadel. In focused most intently upon a slim, white-garbed man and his masked companion striding alongside him on the causeway.

The two appeared to converse for a few moments before touching their lips to one another's in a kiss. A farewell passed between them, and then the pale man disappearing in a flurry of red-and-gold diamonds. The other lingered a few moments longer before striding back into the torch-lit fortress. Meanwhile the eye kept ever watchful - especially on the masked one - not once blinking.

Wizzro watched - and _hungered_.

* * *

His very particular diet made searching for sustenance an absolute chore at times.  His appetite was not easily satisfied even when he was able to feed. Long before Cia's magic had granted him a corporeal form, the necromancer had fed on the magic and spirits of countless ring-bearers. That much had not changed, nor would it ever change so long as he existed.

There was absolutely nothing that compared with the draining of another's life force. Quick and violently, slow and painfully - no matter how they died, their agony always tasted sweet in the end. And every soul he consumed only added to his abilities and prowess.

Oh, the countless ways he could draw out their essence! He could restrain his victims and draw out their spirits at his leisure. He could catch them by surprise and rip out their core in that split second of unbridled terror. He could cut out their hearts, so to speak, in the heat of battle when they all but  _oozed_  power and rage.

His personal favorite, however, was to finish them whilst in the fever of carnal pleasure. Though Wizzro did not fully understand why, the act of mating called forth the most basic and primal nature within a person's being. The mere anticipation could prime a soul as neither battle nor torture ever could. And at their climax - the necromancer ached just to  _think_  of the convulsing, spicy-sweet flavor of spirits in the throes of such passion.

Still, it was not so simple a feat to bring them to that precipice. No, to push them to that razor's edge required a slow artist's touch. Indeed, it took such a degree of finesse and patience that he often times did not know what to do with himself. The urge to simply rip the life from the worthless carcasses of his prey and be done with it was all too strong. Yet the prize he won always proved to be more than worth the frustration in the end.

Most every creature, whether Hylian or demonic or otherwise, could be properly seduced given the right time, effort, and temptation. Temptation was especially key. Not even the most innocent or chaste could resist one uniquely suited to their deepest, darkest desires.

And he could make every deliciously sinful vision come true. An expert though he was in all the dark arts, his ability to shapeshift was his single greatest asset. With the merest twitch he could take the guise of any creature he chose - a goddess-touched warrior, a blushing maid, a loved one, or whatever he fancied.

He commanded the ways of seduction better than even the most experienced harlots. Wizzro knew how to flash his eyes in a meaningful, beckoning glance. He knew how to dance and swing his borrowed body in the most provocative way. He knew how to flirt, how to speak, how to saunter. He knew how to tease and lead his prey on to their doom. 

Wizzro had tasted many a soul in his long existence - Hylian, Zora, Goron, just to name a few. He had dined upon the emperors of vast kingdoms, had feasted upon the great sorcerers of old. He had made all of their knowledge and experiences his own as he consumed their very essence. 

Yet he could never be sated for long. Each victim provided something new to him, something entirely unheard of before. In an ever-changing world, he had to constantly search for more fresh spirits to consume. The necromancer was especially a connoisseur of rare or foreign ones, and he found the greatest satisfaction in reaping them for his own.

And he had just set his sights on his newest conquest - Zant, the former usurper king of the Twilight himself.

He would freely admit it: he had never seduced a member of the Twili race. Wizzro's time in the realm of Twilight had been all too brief. He knew little of their habits or mannerisms, what they found attractive in a mate and what they did not. Furthermore, they were not freely available to observe, and so he could not learn much by spying. Even if he had, they were an exceedingly shy and conservative race from what little he did know. Under such circumstances, he would have been at the complete mercy of ignorance.

Hope was not completely lost to him, however. Another path into the king's confidence was readily available in the form of a certain demon sword spirit. Wizzro had watched the pair of them from near and from afar for the past few weeks, and it did not take one with his store of stolen wisdom to see that the two were incredibly close - and intimate.

Zant's trust in his lover was naive and absolute, childlike in its unwavering strength. If the necromancer could simply play upon that trust, the Twili's soul was practically in his possession now. By the time his prey realized the danger he was in, the proverbial fangs would already have buried themselves in his throat.

Now he had only to put his plan into action.

* * *

"[Sweet one?]"

No answer - how strange. Zant could have sworn he heard the lilting laughter of his sword spirit partner. Yet Ghirahim was no where to be found in this wing of the fortress. There was not so much as a fluttering of his great mantle or the shimmering of his magic to be found.

The Twili wondered if he was well and truly insane. It would not have been the first time he saw things that were not there or heard disembodied voices. He had certainly been accused of as much by his peers and enemies alike on many an occasion. Perhaps they were right... Or perhaps he was simply pining for his lover.

Their master had sent the demon out on another solo mission. Zant knew not the purpose or destination, but then he supposed that was business left between the warlord and the sword spirit. All he actually knew was that his partner was not likely to return until late tomorrow. Ghirahim had been gone only a few short hours, and already the Twili missed him terribly.

Chuckling sadly to himself, he slumped against the wall. Oh, if only Ghirahim could see him now. He would have laughed to see him so pitiful and despondent. He would have teasingly told the Twili to get over it and go make himself. Not out of cruel spirit, of course, but the demon was infamous for getting to the point, sharp and quick like one of his rapiers.

Moonlight washed in from a nearby window. Its gentle otherwordly glow illuminated the long corridor, though much was still left in inky shadow. To be sure, there was a certain kind solace in the dark heavens. Often Zant would look to the nighttime sky for both comfort and inspiration. Sometimes it was enough to quiet the ever-present ache in his chest that bloomed in the absence of his master and lover. 

Now, however... he just wanted Ghirahim.

"Hm," he sighed as he rested his head near one empty sconce. "I wonder where he is now..."

"Right here, darling..."

Out of the corner of his eye, the Twili saw a faint flicker of movement, of white cloth and silvery hair. His heart skipped a delighted beat at the voice. A wide grin split his face as he jumped to his feet. 

And sure enough, from the gloom of the corridor the pale figure of the demon stepped into the halo light by the window. The gem of his sash winked faintly, swaying in time with Ghirahim's face as he moved. His deep violet eyes were half-lidded as they stared back at the Twili. Part of his face was concealed by the mop of straight white locks, and Zant thought him as perfect and beautiful as ever, perhaps even moreso. The night always did bring out the sword spirit's best features, or so Ghirahim always said. The Twili was much inclined to agree in this moment.

Although, something did seem a bit off...

"My love," Zant said, as he strode towards the other man, "you are back much earlier than either the master or I expected. Is... is everything all right?"

"Hm, indeed," his lover crooned as he stepped easily and willingly into the Twili's arms. He slid his gloved hands up Zant's arms, up his neck and to his face. He ran his palm over one smooth cheek. The demon's gloved thumb grazed over his lips and one _shuu'sen_ , his cool essence flooding the Twili's senses. He sighed as his arms wrapped more firmly about the sword spirit, all reasonable thoughts carried away as he leaned into that touch.

Ghirahim smirked and flashes his eyes coquettishly. "And it is even better now that you are here."

* * *

It took every ounce of control he had not to break out of character and cackle madly in glee. By the eldritch powers that spawned him, this was turning out to be all too easy. Zant's dependency upon the demon was even greater - and more pathetic - than he had thought. He had come to the Twili only a few moments before and already the creature was like wet clay in his hands.

Though he did not care overmuch for the demon sword himself, his form certainly did have its uses. Every inch of his current guise exuded self confidence and sensuality, naturally carrying the dominance of a skilled lover. And it was simply perfect for what he needed to do now.

Tamping down the urges that would ruin his mission, Wizzro continued with his little game. He trailed his fingers along every inch of bare skin he could get at, paying special attention to the Twili's sensitive mouth. His fingers slipped into the hood that covered his head, pulling it down to expose the long, grey-skinned expanse of the Zant's neck. Leaning in closely, his lips trailed over the soft skin. He flicked his tongue out at all the right intervals, licking at the delicate pulse  of Zant's throat.

The man shivered in his grasp, and the necromancer smiled as he continued to push forward. He lapped at the hallow of the Twili's throat, along his jaw. Humming lightly, he could practically taste the sweetness of the other's soul already buzzing beneath his skin.

"Have you missed me?" he drawled out in a husky voice. Their lips were scarce inches apart now. "Have you missed... this?" His tongue darted out to strike at that most sensitive part of the Twili's mouth. The strangled cry he received in response made his smirk deepen even more.

* * *

"Y-yes," Zant stuttered, "o-oh yes, Ghirahim..." 

His eyes rolled back in his head as waves aching coolness flooded his senses. He buried in his hands in the smooth tresses, pulling the demon closer. Purring lightly he turned he pair of them around until he was driving his lover against the sandstone wall. The Twili pressed his mouth to the sword spirit's neck, nuzzling the perfect skin there briefly and returning the same favor to Ghirahim.

This was what he had missed. He had longed for this heat between them, this tangle of passions. It was a potent drug to which he was forever addicted, and he had no intentions of ever breaking from it.

At last their lips met in a true kiss. Zant sighed heatedly as the kiss deepened. Arms tightening around his lover, he felt himself quickly letting go and losing control. Yet he could not bring himself to care. All that mattered was that they were here and together, as they always were always meant to be.

Breaking the kiss for only a moment, he moved his lips up to the demon's forehead, an old and familiar step in their dance-

The Twili almost instantly froze. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, truly _wrong_.

Ghirahim's _teri'ha_ \- it was completely different from before. The heat lines beneath the sword spirit's skin closely followed the lattice markings of his true form. Cool, deadly sharp lines that were as precise and consistent as the demon himself.

Yet the lines his _shuu'sen_ perceived now were anything _but_ clean and straight. No, all his heat sense could see was a chaotic fog of energy. There was no pattern and order, and the disconcerting mix of white hot and frost-biting cold made the Twili want to wretch.

At first he thought that the demon must be frightfully ill, but that made no sense whatsoever. The paths of a person's _teri'ha_ never changed, no matter how sick or injured they were. Only death could make the bright lines of their heat signature go quiet.

There was only one possible explanation - and whoever it was that held now, it was _not_ Ghirahim.

* * *

"Hm? What is it, darling?"

A moment ago he had been playing his prey like a harp. Oh, he was so close! The necromancer already felt Zant teetering on the precipice, and the key moment had drawn nigh.

Even as the Twili pressed a kiss to his forehead, dark purple magic began to crackle in his hand. All he had to do was press his palm the fool's chest and recite the incantation and the soul would be his for the taking. The shade licked his lips in anticipation, slowly lifting his arms and bringing his hand up-

Wizzro was not sure when long arms encompassing him became veritable shackles. Nor did he know when the eyes of the Twili turned from the soft amber of lust to a cold and flat orange. The only certainty was that whatever spell that held his prey in thrall had shattered at the worst possible time.

" _You_ ," Zant hissed, "are **_not_** my [sweet one]."

There was a quiet, shaking fury in his tone that curdled even the necromancer's blood. Fear trickled down his spine. It froze him place for an impossibly long moment, and all he could was stare up in horror as the Twili bore down upon him. His hesitation would prove to be his final downfall.

"What have you done with him?"

Before he could even twitch, Zant caught him by the shoulders with surprising -frightening - strength. He felt himself wrenched from the spot to sail through the air. Wizzo's body connected with the stone with a sickening _crack!_ He crumpled against to floor, and his guise fell away in a shower of dust to reveal his true form.

" _What have you done with him?!_ "

Groaning in pained horror, his eye darted around every corner of the corridor. Shadows from all around grew darker, reaching for him as if they possessed a life of their own. The darkness ate up every iota of light as the Twili stalked forward. His eyes were narrowed to burning slits, his lips curled back in a snarl. Curved scimitars materialized in his hand, a deadly promise in each step.

**"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?!?!"**

As the jagged shards of scarlet Twilight began to rain down and his world turned a bloodied black, Wizzro realized his mistake all too late.

* * *

"Zant? Zant! Oh, shadows, where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. This entire side of the fortress smells as if were drenched in his magic, but I cannot pinpoint his location..."

Hurrying ahead with his master now far behind, Ghirahim looked frantically about the absolutely wrecked place. Bits of Twilight magic floated up everywhere, and there was the distinct smell of burnt flesh. There had been a great brawl here, and the demon was quite certain the loser was no longer whole or in large enough pieces to be found.

He blasted open every door and scoured every hallway for the Twili to no avail. Though he appeared as calm and reserved as ever and did not lose his head, tension strung tight in chest like a bowstring pulled taut.

His task had been completed more swiftly than he had anticipated. The sword spirit had promptly returned to the fortress and, of course, went straight away to his warlord to report the details of his reconnaissance mission.Their discussion had just been winding down when the screaming started.

At first the demon thought it must be the drones in the army getting up to mischief yet again, and in retrospect he wished he would have been so lucky. Zant's shrill wailing was unmistakable however, even mixed as it was with the harsh cries of another. A tangible wave of darkness had nearly strangled the both of them even though it come from the far opposite side of the compound. Then the commotion stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the fortress in an eerie silence.

And now the damned Twili was no where to be found. Ghirahim swallowed back the bitterness in his throat that tasted suspiciously of worry. He scowled to himself. If anything had happened to his fool of a lover-

"Ghirahim," came Ganondorf's call. "He is here."

Stopping his tracks, the demon looked wide-eyed over his shoulder. He turned about instantly on his heels. Standing outside a door that had been blown off its hinges, the Gerudo stared intently into the unlit room but did not go in. His master's brows furrowed for a moment in thought before stepping quietly inside.

"Go cautiously," he ordered the sword spirit. "He is in great pain, and he may not recognize us in this state."

The demon arched an eyebrow but did not question his direction. He followed carefully in Ganondorf's footsteps. Ghirahim's eyes widened as he took in the scene.

What might have been a storage room had been torn to pieces. Overturned barrels, tossed rags, and scattered weapons littered the floor. Furniture had been flipped over, and there were damp, blackened marks upon the wall that, upon closer inspection, smelled much like the iron sweetness of blood. None belonged to Zant, but if there was any doubt the other person in the struggle was dead then such doubt was gone now. 

"Go away..."

Head snapping up at the soft whimper, the demon's ears flicked once, twice. He moved in the direction of the voice.

"Darling, where are you? I am here..."

"Go _away_ ," the Twili called out more insistently this time. "No more illusions, no more tricks. I want my [sweet one]. My [sweet one]..."

"Can you not hear me? I am right he-" Ghirahim found him at last tucked in the far corner of the room, and the sight that met his eyes fairly made his heart leap to his throat.

Huddled tightly against the wall, the Twili sat with his knees clutched to his chest. His great robes were ripped in dozens of places, doubtless from when he had knocked over that stack of spears. Zant shook like a leaf in the cold air of the room. His face was tear-streaked and even more pale than usual, his eyes wet and shimmering.

"What in the nine hells has happened?" the sword spirit breathed. "Who did this to you? Zant, answer me."

He knelt by his lover, a rare look of worry on his face. Instinctively he reached out to touch his shoulder - but the Twili flinched away from his hand. When he tried once more, a low hiss was sent his way.

"Whatever you are," the Twili rasped, baring his teeth in a snarl, "vision or ghost - leave me be!"

"What are you talking about? I understand my beauty is otherworldly, but that hardly makes me a mirage. Surely I have more substance than that." Ghirahim's attempt at humor did nothing to lighten the mood or break through his partner's strange behavior. Ignoring the low growl he got in response, he took the Twili's hand in his own. "See, I am here, do you understand?"

The disbelief that still shone strong in the other's eyes was almost insulting, but the sword spirit said nothing of it. Though he still had little idea of what had shaken the Twili so badly, he _did_ know how to to deal with a despondent Zant.  If he could just calm him as he always did, maybe he could bring his partner back to his senses.

Laying his hand open so that his palm was open in Zant's grasp, he allowed the trembling Twili to move of his own accord. Slowly but surely his lover brought the demon's hand to mouth. Ghirahim pulled off the obstructing glove so that the Twili might do as he willed.

With a caution and timidity that concerned even the demon, Zant pressed his lips to the sword spirit's hand with the lightest of touches. Long moments passed before the Twili moved again, but when he did finally did so it was to nuzzle his palm with a renewed warmth and fervor - and, more importantly, with recognition.

"It... It _is_ you... My [sweet one]... Oh, my [sweet one]..."

 

Relief made Ghirahim's chest feel light, and he sighed happily within. Yet he saw the ache and grief in the Twili's gaze, and pain rang through his own chest in rare empathy. It reminded him that someone had indeed harmed his partner and lover. Whatever they had done, he knew it must have been beyond the pale to leave the man in this state. And the demon quite intended to take vengeance for it later on.

For now, however, he had a Twili to comfort.

Zant rubbed his cheek against Ghirahim's hand, and the sword spirit felt the hot bitterness of fresh tears upon his skin. Wordlessly, he pulled the taller man into his arms. He cradled his face against his chest and ran his fingers through the other's soft and bedraggled hair. The Twili sobbed, his shoulders shaking as he muffled his cries against the demon.

"Sh, my love," Ghirahim whispered, keeping the Twili secure in his hold. "You are safe with me now, and I will not leave you. This is me. This is me..."

* * *

Their master watched from afar and bore witness to their quiet moment. From what he could see his lieutenant was no worse for wear, at least not physically. Ganondorf knew it would be some time yet before he could get the full story out of the Twili, but that could wait until later. Zant could not handle more this evening as it was.

Turning away, he exited the room, out into the hallway and by an open window. Predawn light was a silver outline upon the horizon. A new day would soon be upon them. 

Sighing, the Gerudo opened his fist and looked at the trinket nestled in his palm. He looked coolly at the silver ring he had found on the floor of the corridor. The inset ruby that glowed with an otherworldly light. The magic he felt escaping from it was like a dark miasma, cloying and poisonous. There was great power within to be sure, but...

He grunted as his fingers closed over the ring again. Power cloaked his hand in a scarlet light for a long moment. When he opened his hand once more, there was naught but crumbling dust in his hold.

"Take your shades elsewhere," he rumbled darkly, "and trouble us no more."

An errant breeze at last swept away the ashes, fleeing the desert fortress as nightmares fled from the dawn...

**Author's Note:**

> Twili Language:
> 
> "[Denotes Twili language]"
> 
> \- shuu'sen = heat-sensing organs at the corners of one's lips
> 
> \- teri'ha = heat signature unique to each individual


End file.
